


holding on and letting go

by gallavichsecurity



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 11x04 Coda, Canon Compliant, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt Ian Gallagher, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Season/Series 11, Supportive Mickey Milkovich, let ian be happy 2k21, we were robbed of EMT!ian and I will never forgive them for doing that to him
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 20:49:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28784457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallavichsecurity/pseuds/gallavichsecurity
Summary: Fact: Ian was a convicted felon. That wasn’t going anywhere.Fact: Ian was bipolar. That wasn’t going anywhere, either, no matter how well the meds work.Fact: Ian wasscared.He’d never say it aloud, in so many words, but Mickey could see it in his eyes. Because he’d held something precious in the palm of his hand, after working so hard to pull himself together, and then he’d dropped it. Left it painted on the pavement in a smattering of broken glass and a van-sized scorch mark.(Mickey, despite things working out in their favor, couldn’t stop thinking about it. About that eight AM, half-empty bottle of Jameson.)- - - - -Or an angsty 11x04 hurt/comfort coda
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 29
Kudos: 274





	holding on and letting go

**Author's Note:**

> rating for language
> 
> (i promise the bickering doesn't last and it does turn into soft comfort husbands 🥺)

Mickey, despite things working out in their favor, couldn’t stop thinking about it. About that eight AM, half-empty bottle of Jameson.

He was so distracted by it, even at the end of the day. Distracted by the beats of silence that lasted a little too long, by the faint scent of whiskey when he’d leaned in close to squeeze Ian’s shoulders, pushing for some kind of response. He was so distracted by it that the words slipped out, less delicately than he’d intended to approach it —

“So were you _trying_ to get trashed before noon, today, or what?”

— but it wasn’t much of a surprise, either, because when it came to Ian, Mickey’s brain-to-mouth filter shit the bed a long time ago. And he’s definitely never excelled at _delicate._

Ian seemed better now, than before, but still on edge. With the unexpected job offer at the grow house and a pretty paycheck of a thousand bucks a day, Mickey had hoped he would finally relax a little, but there was still something _off_. A tension that lingered in his shoulders and a gravity to his expressions that sent prodding, insistent alarms pinging in Mickey’s mind.

Tired green eyes flicked to him from the next seat at the table, fingers curled around a spoon lifted halfway to his mouth. Ian lifted his head slightly, giving Mickey his attention, but there was a tinge of flatness there, too, a weariness in his eyes that was impossible to ignore. “What d’you mean?”

Using his own spoon to dig into the open pint of ice cream they were working through, Mickey searched for a cookie-dough bite as an excuse to keep his gaze lowered. “I mean,” he began, trying to make his voice something other than accusing, “you were drinkin’ whiskey with your Froot Loops, man. Ain’t like you.”

Mickey could count on one hand the number of times Ian’s gotten drunk since getting out on parole. Tipsy, giggly-drunk and passion-fuck drunk alike, it just wasn’t something that he did anymore. His tolerance on the meds was shit, but more than that, he didn’t really _like_ wading into that dizzying haze of inebriation these days, much preferring to keep his head clear and his eyes open. He’d have a beer or two with dinner, but anything more was usually limited to special occasions.

Special occasions – like throwing a cereal box at his boss and quitting his job, apparently. That night had been one in a handful. A whiskey to start, a pot brownie from V following their brawl, and a couple more beers back at the house had Ian a kind of drunk that was rare, lately, and a little worrying in hindsight.

Mickey, a little crossed from the edible and beer combo but nowhere even near tipsy, had been relieved at the time. Thought that Ian was finally loosening up, letting things settle and realizing that their issues weren’t as drastic as he was making them out to be. Realizing that things would be fine, that Mickey was going to take care of them, and that he didn’t have to be so fucking uptight about everything all the time.

He’s since come to see that Ian wasn’t being _uptight_ so much as genuinely worried, and adamant that Mickey _not_ end up back in prison, which Mickey understood. Still, that didn’t change the fact that tensions had been high for weeks, and it finally seemed like Ian was relaxing. Mickey was _grateful_ for that, at the time.

“Please,” Ian muttered, deflecting and dismissive. “Tuesday morning you were having toast and beer for breakfast.”

“Okay,” Mickey acknowledged, “maybe, but I’m _me_. You’re you, and you don’t do that shit.”

At least, Ian didn’t _normally_ do that shit.

Now, thinking about that other night made him nervous. Paired with the Jameson from this morning, it made him downright _twitchy._ It made his skin itch and his chest swell with something uncertain, because Ian wasn’t loosening up – he was blocking something _out_.

From the edges of his vision, Mickey could see Ian’s expression shutter closed, hardening in a way that was all too familiar. The irritation, the exasperation, the strung-out kind of fatigue that he was pretty sure wasn’t typical of newlyweds, but was becoming worryingly typical for _them._

Ian looked down, using his spoon to push some of the ice cream around as he averted his gaze. “Just a shitty couple days, Mick.” He said it like an assurance, but it was flimsy. Brittle. “Seriously.”

Pulling in a long breath, Mickey shook his head. “Look,” he pressed, rubbing at his eyebrow, “I know we’re — I know we’re in the middle of a fight, or whatever? But _shit_ , man. You’re walkin’ around looking like someone kidnapped your fucking dog. Thought you’d be happy about the security gig workin’ out. Bringing some good money in.”

Ian nodded as his eyebrows pinched. “I am,” he affirmed, attention still dropped to his spoon. It wasn’t convincing, though – if anything, there was a bit of an edge to it. His gaze flicked up briefly, matching Mickey’s for only a moment before falling away again. He continued to dig through the ice cream. “ _Are_ we still fighting? I wasn’t totally clear on that.”

“It depends,” Mickey qualified, trying to keep his impatience from bleeding in too badly. “Are you gonna stop bein’ pissy about everything and actually tell me what’s goin’ on in that stupid head of yours? Tell me why you’ve been in such a bad fuckin’ mood lately?”

There was an immediate pull to Ian’s shoulders, at that, one that Mickey couldn’t ignore. A slight tension flickering onto his face in the form of a tightly pressed lips, and his glare cut back up to Mickey. He worked his jaw, that little muscle in his cheek flexing finely, before shaking his head to himself and dropping his attention back to the ice cream.

Mickey wondered too-late, for a long moment, if this was _more_. If this was more than just some pissy, bad mood, fueled by pettiness and fighting and that bulletproof stubbornness Ian’s worn like armor since they were kids. If maybe this was something else. Not just a bad mood, but a _bad mood_. If this is what it might look like, now, when things were starting to pile up and topple over. Functional, not overwhelming and debilitating like it may be without the meds, but with this bleak grey fucking cloud hanging over everything. Tired and irritable and pessimistic.

The worried feeling that had niggled at his mind since this morning, since the Jameson and the Froot Loops and the push to get showered and dressed, came back full-force. It sat in his chest like a brick.

Ian dropped the spoon to the table with a small _cling_ , bringing Mickey out of his thoughts with a start. “I see that look,” he said vaguely, and waved in the general direction of Mickey’s face. “I hate that look.”

“The fuck you talking ‘bout?”

Ian sighed. “I’m allowed to have a shitty couple of days,” he drawled, like a reminder, though it was clear his patience was thin. “Doesn’t mean I’m _depressed_. Doesn't mean I'm crashing. So stop it, with the look.”

“I don’t have a _look_ , you big baby,” Mickey shot back, because Ian sometimes responded better to concern when it came thinly-veiled in the form of insults. Insults, he could return. But concern alone always felt like _pity,_ and that was something Mickey knew he couldn’t stomach. “But if I did have a look,” he continued, pointed, “which I _don’t_ — I think it would be a fuckin’ reasonable look to have, considering I found you shame-spiraling into a bowl of shitty, expired off-brand cereal this morning.”

Ian huffed a breath, clearly unamused, but he sat back in his seat regardless and let his eyes drift shut. Mickey took it as a good sign — if he was really angry, Mickey would be getting _the chin,_ not closed eyes and a face lifted to the ceiling. “I was not shame-spiraling,” Ian muttered, sounding exhausted, “I was _wallowing._ Because I couldn’t even hold onto the one demeaning, pointless job I was able to land. Checking _expiration dates._ ”

Mickey felt his expression drop into a frown. “This again?” he wondered aloud, because he thought they’d settled this. Thought they were on the same page, finally, when it came to the job thing. “Why are you hung up on that? We got the security gig. Shit’s all worked out. The money stuff’s handled.”

Ian rubbed his forehead, eyes still closed, before pushing out a breath, long and heavy. “That’s not what I mean.”

“The fuck do you mean, then?” Mickey fired back. He was trying to be patient, but his voice sounded a little pointed, even to his own ears. He wasn’t great at talking through shit like this, and Ian wasn’t making it easier by being so stupidly cryptic. “Why’s it so important to you?”

“It just _is,_ Mickey.”

“It was one shitty job, man, where they weren’t even payin’ you right. What’re you gettin’ so worked up over it for?”

Ian clenched his jaw again, just a little, just enough to be noticeable, and didn’t respond.

Mickey wondered, briefly, why everything he said came out sounding like a fucking _challenge_.

Ian was upset _._ Clearly, Ian was upset. Maybe — _maybe —_ riding a downswing, and _upset._ Challenging him, biting his head off, wasn’t going to help. Daring him to argue that _no,_ that half empty bottle of Jameson _wasn’t_ a giant red flag, would never amount to anything. There would be no winners in that discourse, there would only be losers. There would only be frustration and anger and hurt.

Mickey needed to change tactics. Needed to prop himself up on that brick of worry in his chest and soften himself, pull away from that sharp-edged whip of a tongue he’d been using so often lately, because that wasn’t going to _help._ It would only do more damage.

Placing his own spoon down, Mickey reached to settle his hand on Ian’s thigh. Gentle, and close, an olive branch if Mickey knew how to give one. He didn’t know what to say, but Ian relaxed slightly under his touch, letting out a soft breath, and it was a better response than any words Mickey could ever say would warrant.

Finally, after an agonizing stretch of silence, Ian opened his eyes. Took in another inhale through his nose, the tension around his mouth softening as he looked back down, finding Mickey’s gaze. “I’m not _worked up_ over it,” he insisted, both firm and quiet, and Mickey silently filed the phrase away as one to avoid in the future. Ian dropped his own hand to cover Mickey’s, seeming to deflate all at once. “I’m just — I’m _tired,_ Mick,” he confessed, and shook his head. “I’m so fucking tired. Of fighting, and worrying, and – and everything _else_.”

Shifting a little closer, Mickey searched his eyes for something, anything, that could clue him in. He rubbed his hand along Ian’s thigh. “Give me a little more, Gallagher,” he pried, grateful to have finally shifted into the right gear. He knows Ian, knows how to pull him out of his head when he’s getting stuck. Usually, the subtleties were enough — _what if I offer you a job? stop eatin’ your weight in front loops, go get dressed. go on. —_ but sometimes they weren’t. Sometimes he needed to push a little harder.

And sometimes when he did, Ian resisted. Sometimes Ian _ran_.

But other times — more often now than ever before — Ian let him in.

For a few worrying seconds, Mickey wasn’t sure which it would be this time around. Wasn’t sure if Ian was going to resist, or run, or let him in, and the uncertainty felt like knots in his veins, cutting off his circulation and making his heartrate pick up.

Then gently, slowly, long fingers tightened around his.

“I used to be an EMT,” Ian whispered, so, so softly. There was a tension back around his mouth, in his chin and his forehead and his eyes, like it was all he could do to keep his voice steady. Steeling his face, turning to stone, a dam against a riptide. “Now I can’t even hold down a shitty warehouse job. And this is just... how it’s going to be, for the rest of my life. Do you _get_ that? I finally got to my feet, and then I fucked it up.”

Something twisted in Mickey’s stomach. It shouldn’t feel like news, that _this_ is what Ian’s been thinking about, but it kind of did.

It was no secret that Ian loved being an EMT. Mickey knew how much he loved it, had known it since their road trip to Mexico, when Ian had started gushing about his training and his coworkers and the thrill of hitting the sirens for the first time. Mickey knew, then, that it was so much bigger than his words let on, so much more _._ And he hadn’t seen Ian look so happy, so at-ease, since _before._ Before the diagnosis. Before the mania. Before the meds had, for a scary couple months, leeched the color out of everything, etched deep shadows under his eyes that Mickey could see even through the prison glass, under those horrible fluorescent lights.

When they were locked up together, Ian had been _so_ relieved — excited, even — to get that job at the infirmary. To have a chance to help people, even criminals, like that again. He thought he’d lost it forever.

“I fucked it up,” Ian repeated, low and almost desperate, and a weight sank in Mickey’s stomach. He kind of _did_ lose it forever, didn’t he? In the end? “And it’s _gone,_ Mickey. I can never get that back. For a second — “ He broke off and laughed darkly — quiet, hitched breath — and used his free hand to scrub at his face. The kitchen light glinted off his wedding band. His voice was ragged. Eyes, rimming in pink, but remaining dry. “For a second, I thought: _maybe._ When Paula got me that job, y’know? But it wasn’t real. And it won’t ever be real again, because of what I did. I can never — I can never get it _back_. All I can get is expired fucking cereal _._ ”

It made Mickey’s throat dry up, hearing Ian talk about it like this, like some shattered, lost limb. Mourn it, guilty and ashamed, like some treasured thing that he’d ruined. The air in his lungs rushed out, his heart lurching in his chest. “ _Ian_ …”

“And this is how it’s going to be,” Ian repeated, voice breaking, “for the rest of my life. Always dealing with the fallout of whatever bullshit I pull and _losing_ , every _fucking_ time. I’m so tired of it, Mick. Of just… failing. Over and over again.”

And Mickey knew that this — this _hurt,_ and this anger, wasn’t coming out of nowhere. It wasn’t some fabricated, philosophical loss eating away at him, this had a source. A file. A record, tied off with a felony charge that would make it difficult – if not near-impossible – to ever get a position like that again. The consequence, the _fallout,_ of a manic episode that he was still facing even now, long after his physical release from prison. Still shackled, long after he’d been freed.

And Mickey knew that this wasn’t Ian’s first grapple with a shattered dream, but that didn’t make it any easier to face. Didn’t make it a lesser grief to carry around, didn’t make it less exhausting. If anything, it made it all _worse._ So much worse. Because it was starting to form a pattern, in Ian’s head, and he was sinking into it. Believing it, buying it, because so far, there was no tangible evidence pointing to anything else. No apparent reason _not to_. There was only history. There were only the facts.

Fact: Ian was a convicted felon. That wasn’t going anywhere.

Fact: Ian was bipolar. That wasn’t going anywhere, either, no matter how well the meds worked.

Fact: Ian was _scared._ He’d never say it aloud, in so many words, but Mickey could see it in his eyes. Because he’d held something fragile and precious in the palm of his hand, after working so hard to pull himself together, and then he’d dropped it. Left it painted on the pavement in a smattering of broken glass and a van-sized scorch mark.

It was frightening, really, how easily Mickey had overlooked these huge, gaping wounds. They were _married._ Partners, in every fucking way, forever. And yet they’d been so busy fighting, measuring themselves against each other, that Mickey had missed it, had missed how hard this was hitting him.

And of course Ian wouldn’t volunteer it on his own. Ian was too proud, for that — too proud to be forthcoming about something that, in his mind, was so shameful. Something so deeply entwined in his sense of self that he regarded it as a knock to his character, a stain on his ability, that things had turned out the way they did.

So he’d sat in it. Steeped in it, the world turning dark and bitter around him.

And Mickey hadn’t picked up on it, not until he was wallowing into cereal and whiskey at breakfast.

“Hey,” Mickey eased, at a loss. He reached for him, putting a hand to his shoulder because he needed to ground himself, somehow, and maybe Ian did too.

He knew he should say something. He knew he should offer words of comfort, or solace, or support, but nothing he could think of seemed big enough. Nothing he could ever say would amount to the depth of that loss, would be any better than putting a Band-Aid on a bullet wound.

Mickey would never truly understand, because he never held ‘career’ very high on his sense-of-self scorecard. But Ian _did._ And his dreams for his career, his goals, keep crumbling to pieces in his hands.

Ian closed his eyes again, relaxing under Mickey’s touch. He took a breath and shook his head, the stony creases of his expression softening out, just a bit. “I don’t want you to think I’m miserable,” he went forward, quieter, now, and earnest. He opened his eyes, catching Mickey’s blue with pleading green. Begging him to understand. “I’m glad the security job’s gonna work. I’m _excited_ to spend more time with you. And when I say I keep – that I keep _losing,_ I don’t mean this. This – _us –_ is the only thing that’s gone right in a long time. That’s not what this is about.”

“Yeah,” Mickey assuaged, bringing his hand up Ian’s face, curling softly along his jaw. Almost on instinct, Ian turned his face into the touch, reveling it, as his eyes fluttered closed again _._ “I know, Ian.”

And he did. He did know, because this wasn’t about Mickey at all, or their relationship. This was about _him_. And Mickey would always be right at his fucking side, but this was some internal thing that Ian had to face. He had to do the heavy lifting, while Mickey cheered him on from the sidelines.

Absently, some part of Mickey thought back to that night on the pavement, to promise rings and crutches and red-rimmed, desperate eyes. Whether Ian _loved him enough_ had never been in question, not really, not in the way he’d impulsively thrown out, but there was a similar pull underlying it all as there was now. Something that didn’t touch _them,_ only Ian. Some insecurity that only Ian could reach, only Ian could untangle.

Unlike that night, however, Mickey wasn’t going to send him away to do it. Wasn’t going to give Ian anything else to doubt.

Using the hand still curled at the nape of his neck, Mickey gently tugged him forward, closer, and Ian followed pliantly, dropping his head to Mickey’s shoulder. He snaked his other arm around Ian’s waist and it was awkward, still seated at the table, but he felt Ian melt into it, and that was what mattered. The deep inhale as Ian buried his nose in the crook of Mickey’s neck, and the relaxing weight of his husband settling against him.

Mickey turned his face slightly, enough to press his lips to the side of Ian’s head. He stayed there for a long moment, taking him in, before sighing into his hair. “You shoulda told me, man.”

He could feel Ian’s breath, hot against his skin, slow and deep and even. “Thought I was overreacting,” he murmured, and shook his head. “Wanted to… try and move on, I guess.”

Mickey huffed a breath, lifting his eyes to the ceiling. “Fuck, Ian,” he muttered, and shook his head. “You’re not overreacting. I’ll happily _tell_ you when you’re overreacting. This is – this _isn’t_ …” He didn’t even know what to say. He didn’t have the words. Nothing he could string together would be enough, would mean what he needed it to mean. He shook his head again. “ _Fuck,_ Ian.”

Face still ducked low into Mickey’s shirt, Ian let out a wet laugh. “Yeah,” he agreed, and Mickey hoped that meant he understood. “Fuck.”

“You gotta tell me this shit, okay? You can’t be sittin’ in it like this. It’s never gonna end well.”

Another breath. In through his nose, deep and slow. A nod. “Yeah. ‘m sorry.”

“Don’t gotta be sorry,” Mickey reminded him, because they’d talked about that, about apologizing for stupid things that didn’t call for apologies. “Just gotta let me help.”

Another nod against his neck, another long breath, and Mickey tightened his hold, just a little.

“And no more drinkin’ at breakfast, huh? That’s my thing. Can’t steal my thing.”

Ian let out another small huff before pulling away, only far enough to look at him. Matching his gaze and lingering there, almost searching, still ringed in pink. Unguarded, though still heavy. _“_ I wasn’t trying to take out my shitty mood on you,” he murmured quietly, and shook his head. “Always takin’ my shit out on you. Don’t mean to, Mick.”

“Aye,” Mickey protested, not wanting to humor the line of thinking. “Knock that out. It’s not like I don’t take my shit out on you, too. S’not like I was exactly _helping.”_ Hesitating for a moment, Mickey scratched his fingers through Ian’s short hair, feeling like he should say more. “It’s not wrong _,_ for you to feel bad about it,” he landed on eventually, holding Ian’s gaze. “You’re… you’re allowed to feel bad about losin’ important things. You’re allowed to be frustrated and angry ‘bout it, depressed or not. Which is _also_ fuckin’ fine, for the record.”

Ian took a slow breath, controlled and deep, before what little tightness that remained in his expression melted away. “Yeah,” he acknowledged at length, resigned and quiet. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you’re not incapable of holdin’ onto a good job, either. You’re not hopeless, just ‘cause you got a felony and a mood disorder to work around.”

Ian shifted, dropping his gaze to his hands. Picked at a callous absently. “I know,” he agreed again, but less intently. “Feels like it sometimes, though.”

And Mickey could see that, even if it ached through his chest to do so. Could see how looking back at everything all at once could twist the future into something ugly, and _warped_ , a little too misshapen to fit where it’s supposed to. Trying to shove a square through a circle, roadblocks around every corner. 

“Yeah,” he exhaled after a moment, dropping his hand down to catch Ian’s again, halting the idle picking. He ducked his head, searching for his eyes. “But you’re bein’ too hard on yourself. It’s fucking _okay_ if you have to adjust some plans. The workin’ world’s never been user-friendly, man. It’s – what’s the word? Ableist?” Mickey waved vaguely, but he had Ian’s eyes again, beautiful deep green and wide as they blinked at him in surprise. “Doesn’t matter. It’s _shitty,_ Ian, and it ain’t structured well for typical healthy people, let alone people with felonies, or fuckin’ mental illnesses. It’s okay to have to rework some standards, or whatever, if it means saving you from wallowin’ into your Froot Loops.”

For a moment, Ian just watched him, that same wide-eyed, almost confused look pinned to him

Then: “…You been reading self-help books, or something?”

Relief swelled in his chest. Not because anything was _better,_ or resolved – that was still a long way out – but because he hadn’t heard that tone all day. All week, even. And it was like a cooling salve on a burn Mickey hadn’t realized he’d been tending, to hear it from Ian now.

Despite the warmth that rose in him at the jab, it took every ounce of willpower that Mickey had not to kick him under the table. “Would you shut the fuck up?” he snipped, without any heat. “I’m trying to be a supportive husband, over here.”

Finally, after so long without, a tired smile flickered onto Ian’s face. “Sorry,” he appeased. “Continue.”

Mickey pressed his lips together, but it was useless to pretend to be irritated, or annoyed. Almost as quickly as it came it faded again, any trace of hardness thawing, like it always did for Ian. One way or another, intentionally or not. “Just… cut yourself some slack, once in a while,” he murmured, hoping to round it off. “Yeah? And fuckin’ talk to me, when you can’t.”

There was a beat that passed, and Ian’s chin did that horrible, tight thing that it does when he’s feeling too much and trying to hide it –

_– can I go in with him? –_

_– that’s the first time I’ve felt anything since –_

_– how can you possibly know that me, that this – all of me, all the fuckin’ versions I am –_

_–_ but his eyes were clear. “I will,” he assured, and his fingers squeezed Mickey’s tight. Tilted his head down, their foreheads touching, closing any distance left between them. “I… _thanks_ , Mick.”

Lifting his free hand to cradle against Ian’s cheek, Mickey let his eyes shut. He hummed softly as his only response, feeling worn. Ian really didn’t need to thank him, not for this, but they’ve done enough arguing, recently. They could both use a little peace.

Ian’s hands rested on his lower back. “No one else knows how good you are,” he murmured, like it was the most important thing to come out of this.

“S’okay,” Mickey dismissed, brushing his thumb along his cheek. “Don’t need ‘em to. Got a rep to protect, you know.”

“I know.” And then, a breath later: “I don’t want you going back to prison, Mickey.”

And it was Mickey’s turn to take a beat, at that, and he shook his head, opening his eyes to regard Ian again. “No one’s goin’ back to prison,” he reassured. “We’ll be careful, man. You gotta trust me.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Ian tugged him closer, fingers curling into Mickey’s shirt as he ducked his head once more. “I love you.”

Mickey exhaled, lowering his hand and trailing his fingers up and down the length of his back. It had been so long, since they’d just held onto each other. “Love you too.”

“I know. Thanks for that.”

If they hadn’t been so close, if Ian’s face wasn’t buried in his shoulder, Mickey would’ve had to look away to keep the sting from his eyes. Instead he let it come, closing his lids against it and shaking his head. “Jesus Christ, Ian, you say that like it’s _hard_.”

And part of him waited for some kind of protest, some kind of insistence that _yes_ , it must be hard to love him, because that’s where Ian’s mind took him sometimes. Instead, he just melted further into Mickey’s arms, humming unintelligibly.

Still rubbing up and down his back, practically feeling the energy deflate out of him, Mickey squeezed Ian a little tighter. “Wanna go up to bed?”

Ian let out a soft sigh, warm as it blew across Mickey’s neck. “So fucking badly.”

“Alright then, firecrotch,” he murmured, and gently dislodged him, tugging him to his feet. “Let’s go to fuckin’ bed.”

And as they cleaned up the table and made their way upstairs, Mickey knew that this loss, this grief, wasn’t going to be relieved any time soon. It wouldn’t be as easy as a few words of reassurance, a couple of embraces and some lingering care to make it better. It may never _be_ relieved, not really, not completely, because the core of that loss wasn’t going to _change_.

But hopefully it could get… tucked away, somewhere. Set aside to collect dust until they inevitably stumble upon it again, like some long-forgotten box of photos discovered in the attic. Put away in storage to make way for new pictures, new memories, new dreams that fit into this twisted, warped space that life had left open for them.

It wouldn’t be easy to do, and he knew that the brunt of that work would fall to Ian. But Ian was always good at sorting things away and fighting to get to a better place, and Mickey knew he could do it again. And in the meantime, he’d have Mickey here to hold him through these tired, sad nights. To gently pry him away from his thoughts and his worries and to point out when he’s been sitting in them for too long.

When they finally crawled into bed, Ian wasted no time crowding into his space and wrapping around him. Tucking himself into Mickey’s side, a reversal of their normal positions but one Mickey would readily assume, if it helped Ian feel a little bit better.

With weariness heavy in his bones, he pressed another kiss to Ian’s head, rubbing small circles to the back of his shoulders where he could reach. A moment passed, Ian’s steadying weight next to him, hearing his breathing become slow and even as the exhaustion overtook him, and Mickey thought back to the morning. To the cereal and the whiskey and Ian’s socked toes, curled around the edge of the table.

He took in a shuddering breath. Thought about Ian and ROTC fatigues and an EMT uniform.

Ian shifted closer, as if reading him even in sleep, and exhaled deeply.

Staring up at the dark ceiling, Mickey’s eyes burned.

**Author's Note:**

> please don't come for me, I'm also so so tired of Sad Ian Hours (TM).... but also the man has been through so much and canon will never acknowledge it, so I wanted to 
> 
> come chat with me on [tumblr](https://gallavichsecurity.tumblr.com/) :)


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